Bleeding Hearts and Silver Daggers
by JustAboveInsanity
Summary: Little LiS drabbles. Feel free to suggest some.
1. Chapter 1

She's still young when she first learns the bitter burn of tragedy.

Her father dies and leaves her to her own devices, and hell if there is an afterlife then she loathes whatever god watches over the long dead masses- she loathes the god that abandoned his creations on this horrible planet, and she loathes the god that doesn't let the dead visit the living.

But as if matters weren't already horrible, she just as quickly learns that her best friend is moving away.

She's angry- no, more than angry. She's lava, with an inferno blazing a trail through her veins and heat rolling off her tongue in waves. Her eyes glare like the sun, burning through the walking corpses of people she once knew. Her heart is the earth's core, molten metals and crackling heat that she wishes would just spill out and swallow her whole.

But she's been wishing that for years now.

Eventually she builds herself armor, all leathery and hot against her skin before she builds it up into something better- something easier to project herself in, something less obvious. And when she's done with that armor she releases her steam across the bay's quaint little town. She burns her name into the earth and chars the city to smoke and ash with her actions and impulses- but underneath that armor she knows she's just a little girl wearing a mask to cover her fear and doubt. She's just a terrified child, afraid to feel pain and express emotion outside anger and contempt.

But she has all the (otherwise useless) time in the world to tune up her act.

Years move past with flicks of a lighter and clinks of cheap beer bottles meeting one another.

Time isn't relevant to her when her world is void of meaning, so she figures that it must be a miraculous gift from that god she loathes when a fallen angel tumbles into her life.

Her angel has a name, beautiful and ever ringing in her ears- now more so than ever.

Her angel is named Rachel Amber, and she's a star shining bright white lights across Arcadia Bay.

Rachel's light is gentle and healing, unlike the smoke and flames that start crawling up her throat and out her lungs whenever she so much as hears the wrong thing from the wrong person.

And she vaguely wonders, in the back of her head, if she's ever met someone with such a comforting light before- because Rachel's is familiar, but she can't quite put her tongue on it. So instead of worrying about it she forgets that too, letting it fall to the back of her skull with a half assed greeting from Arcadia Bay's local dragon.

But as soon as the words leave her mouth she's second guessing herself, because she can feel the way Rachel's eyes analyze her- quick and piercing.

Rachel is the first of few to draw her sword and chip her armor, all with a simple "Hello" and a smile.

It's no wonder the girl's name is whispered all over the bay, because one word from THE Rachel Amber and she can feel herself diving forward into her feelings once again, and which one it is she has no clue yet but she's not sure she wants to work it out any how.

All she knows is that she's in for one hell of a ride.

And one hell of a ride it was.

Rachel falls out of her life just as easily as she fell in, and when she does she leaves Chloe with shredded armor.

Chloe is different now.

She's got short blue hair and an act so firmly drilled into her mind that trying to hear anything from before her change is like an attempt at gas-lighting her.

She's had almost a full five years worth of adventure because of a simple greeting exchanged what feels like eons ago, and for all she knows that's EXACTLY how long ago it was.

And she's not entirely sure if it's the drugs or the alcohol that drive her to thinking back to the last time she heard from her charismatic companion, but when she realizes how long it's been she freaks.

After a few months she feels like a lost little kid again, shaking and sobbing on the inside while her stony front remains ever bitter.

Her fire is steadily coming back, crawling like (now familiar) smoke up her lungs before snaking out in steady roaring streaks and splattering screams.

Her fire is back and better than ever, but she's had years of pushing to know there are new ways of dealing with it.

Her fire is back, and all she can do about it is make hastily scrawled lines on paper with screeching lead until the white noise in her head turns into echoing mutters and snide remarks from long ago. Until she finds herself tugging at her armor and her flesh beneath it, filthy nails making white hot trails down her flesh as she waits for everything to shut up.

She can't sleep.

She can't dream.

She can't think.

All she can do is move around on autopilot, trying to snag dollar bills and drugs off every willing customer for her various services.

All she can do is steadily start to hate herself and everyone she's ever know, swallowing back fire and broken screams until she runs into quite the troubling situation.

She's got a gun against her ribs and a lunatic raving just inches from her face, making her skin crawl and her stomach heave with disgust and fear.

She's afraid, but she wonders if a bullet could really end all her problems so quickly and efficiently.

(She wonders why she hadn't thought about bullets before.)

But suddenly the fire alarm is blaring and she reacts on impulse, pushing that freaky little Prescott dirt bag off of her before he can leave a greater imprint on her pale paper skin.

She catches a glimpse of brown hair in the background before she runs off, voices rattling in her skull as she makes her escape.

Not too long after she's falling back into old habits.

She's trying to make a get away in her truck when she sees that prick again, and she sees a familiar face beneath him, struggling to free herself and fearful of the damage this boy can cause.

She nearly runs him over (she really wants to), and soon the name she's looking for slips off her tongue just before the brunette can recognize her as well.

A brief exchange of names and a command and they're zooming out the parking lot and down the streets, hearts becoming birds locked tight in flesh cages.

One's heart is bleeding and locked away, and the other's is feeble yet free.

She remembers that this is the warmth she was lacking before and after Rachel's era in her life, and she's chocking back the same damnable feelings once again as an idle conversation strikes up between the pair.

Max is the last to pull out a weapon and tear off her armor, but she is certainly the most careful above doing so.

But Chloe's only concern is that when the dagger is drawn to rip the imaginary steel away from her flesh...

Is if her old friend will be afraid of what she finds lying underneath. Blood and gore, blackened and infected. Surely the damage is too great to fix.

(And she quietly hopes that this gentle star will try and heal her anyways, in ways that Rachel never could successfully do.)


	2. Chapter 2

He was a broken boy. A little washed up toy that some child left in the dark when they grew up.

If he had to give that child a name, it would be Rachel. She's the one who left him.

But that little story was best saved for latter; he hated it when stories were in a scrambled up order.

His name is Nathan Prescott, and he wasn't always so horrible.

In the beginning, he was a normal child. He had friends and a vivid personality, and he had a little tinge of wisdom to his childish behavior. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, even if it ended up horrible for him.

He wasn't broken back then. He was a small child, feeble but unafraid. He didn't know about the horror that awaited him, and he had yet to learn the bitter stain that reality could imprint in his vision, his brain, and his heart.

He was a young boy of only ten when he learned how cruel the world could be.

To others it seemed like he'd been dealt all the right cards at birth, but they were outsiders. They knew nothing of the hell that wondered his home in human form.

To say his father was a demon would be an understatement. His father was practically the devil himself, all suits and business attire above an oil slick layer of smooth speech and violent mannerism.

At first his father seemed to him like a normal man; a stranger that live among his family and slipped along through the town with ease.

But he learned more quickly than he should have. He learned that a stranger is a demon until he proves himself to be worse.

His father was an abusive man; the king of Arcadia Bay. He snagged land and property out from the feet of the poor and claimed them for himself- a one man army composed of blackmail and cons.

Nathan had tried, once, at that young age, to stop his father. "Why," he had started, voice trembling though his stance was firm. "Do you do this, dad? These people aren't that different from us."

He learned by means of hands and tongues that he was not to ask questions.

His father was the first to bruise him.

After that the world slowly went downhill, a tremor of fear rising through the tense atmosphere.

Every now and then Nathan would try and stop his father; try to keep him from ruining all those lives.

But by the age of thirteen he learned to stop trying, and he learned that he'd never succeed.

By the age of fourteen, he decided to follow the old saying. If you can't beat them, join them.

But joining them had been much harder than it looked.

His father and himself clashed and butted heads, but Nathan always tried to play "the good son" and pretend to follow in his father's footsteps.

Outside the prison of his house he was bitter, and words slid off his tongue like daggers.

Nonetheless, he still managed to make friends.

Over the years he was altered and changed, both by his father and by his friends.

His father induced his paranoia, with verbal and emotional bruising and the occasional physical attempt. It was around then that Nathan started wearing jackets, but only ever during those days.

His peers gave him methods of "coping" with his horrid life, by means of drugs and alcohol. He'd light rolls of weed and breathe in giant clouds of smoke, and the roll would blaze just as he had beneath his father's watching gaze.

By the time he was sixteen, he was all anyone could deem a devil at first glance.

He blew up firecrackers in the bathrooms of Blackwell, he threatened and disrupted classes and teachers, and he sold drugs around the campus in his off time. People tried to do things at first, recommended he got help and tried to turn his fathers attention to him.

Their attempts were met with threatening suggestions and a reminder of their situation, a devil and his son glaring down with gleaming grins.

Nathan Prescott, if you heard the name, brought one of two things to mind.

If you heard the name and were on his good side, you thought about wild parties and venomous words that were far more friendly than when he was truthfully angry.

If you heard the name and were on his bad side, then you thought about threats and violence, followed by physical pain and blackmail.

In Blackwell, he was the king. In Arcadia Bay, he was a prince.

And when Rachel walked into town, his world was ripped off its hinges and thrown to the dirt.

Rachel and Nathan we nothing more than distant friends, but sometimes distant friends could be the strongest ones. They both knew how fake they were, because Rachel could see the broken boy within him and Nathan could see the wolf within her.

Rachel was a wolf in sheep's clothing, and Nathan would be the boy who stayed silent.

They spoke and blazed and drank their problems away, watching with amused laughter as the world blurred and faded away.

But it all crashed to an end.

Everything had been perfect until Mark Jefferson decided he needed a lap dog, and who better to play that bit than Arcadia Bay's least wanted citizen?

With bruises and whispered threats, Nathan could feel the iron chain tether him to the Dark Room, and he loathed every second of it.

Nathan began to wear jackets all the time, bruises and self inflicted scars covered by scratchy materials and barking threats.

The broken boy dug his grave when he saw her there.

In the Dark Room, people were photographed and sent away. That was how things worked.

But Rachel was a wolf, and she thrashed and fought with every breath that filled her smoke ridden lungs.

Mark put her down when Rachel finally worked out who he was.

Then he turned and sent his little lap dog out to bury the wolf he'd claimed to be his friend.

When Rachel's body fell into the hole he had dug, he buried a part of himself with her, broken sobs filling the night air as he covered the shallow grave with dirt.

Then he had to play the part of an innocent man, doing his best to convince the world that he had hardly know her.

(In his oil flooded heart he knew the wolf must hate him, and it made the act a little more bittersweet yet bearable.)

It had all been fine when he climbed back up to his throne, playing the part of the king while Jefferson moved him around with puppet strings.

He was a broken boy, and the wolf had stolen a piece of his broken heart.

He was a broken boy, lashing out at anyone that got near.

He was a broken boy, and he tried to prove himself to Jefferson when that little punk bitch had crossed his path.

He was a broken boy, frail and made of glass.

His shards fell apart and his facade melted away in his room, razor blades and burning cigarettes marking the tainted flesh that clung to his pitiful bones.

He was a broken boy, and when that hipster chick crossed his path for the first time he *knew*.

He knew his fate was sealed and he surrendered silently in his mind.

He played the part of a beast, but he kept lulling her down the path.

He'd rather rot for what he'd done than watch another innocent person fall into Jefferson's grasp, and if Max would be the person to take him down from his throne again so be it.

He'd break off into pieces and fall into the dirt when she reached towards him anyways, so the person who reached to take his crown was of little importance to him.

He is a broken boy, and when Mark reveals who his next target is, he only hopes that Max can take them down in time.


	3. Chapter 3

The world is jaded, fragmented and slurred strips of the present moving in a flurry before her very eyes.

Pain spreads like fire through her neck and is followed closely by a sickening numbness, crawling through her flesh with cold claws.

Fireflies erupt in the center of her vision, trying to combat the ebony cobwebs that are slowly creeping around the edges of her line of sight.

Glowing heat and chilling frost fight while her mind and heart try to keep her awake and moving, though the useless dead weight of her limbs becomes evident in the mere seconds it took for that icy steel tip to pierce her nape.

She reaches out as the world begins to blur, faded fracture lines dancing around her like the outstretched hands of death himself.

(She's sure she's not dying, but the way her heart is racing to combat it makes her feel like she is.)

A name falls of her lips and she can't tell if she's crying or not since everything's become numb, but it's owner turns in slow motion as her outstretched hand moves forward.

Her veins are filled with ice when the bullet connects with Chloe's skull.

She wants to break down and sob as a symphony of red follows the bullet in it's dive, her foot slipping and her knees buckling as she slowly falls to the ground.

She tries to rewind but cannot, a dull pain erupting behind her eyes at the strain but quickly disappearing with the powerful effects of whatever drug she's been dosed with.

Her eyes look first to the still falling body of her best friend, her gaze unfocused like a picture taken by a jittery child.

She wants to laugh, cry, and scream all at once when she moves her gaze to see the person behind the bullet, expecting the person behind it to be just as cruel as what they've done with it.

She expects someone like Nathan at the very most, or perhaps another Prescott prick, but her eyes meet familiar glasses instead.

The world fades with her vision, and a sense of fear lingers in the back of her skull as the picture before her fades away as well.

She knows this man well.

He's her favorite teacher, and a grade A photographer. A role model and a charismatic man.

Mark Jefferson stares her down from behind the barrel of a gun before he lowers it, face grim and unforgettable.

Max wants to say something but cannot, surrendering to the darkness that surrounds her with one final thought.

 _I'll make that sick fuck pay for what he's done.._


	4. Chapter 4

She was like an angel among the broken children of Arcadia Bay, filling the small town with light and hope for better days.

Some said she was not an angel, however. Some claimed that she was the devil, hiding among human ranks..

Like a wolf in sheep's clothing, almost.

Rachel Amber was like a town mascot, in a way.

If you went to Arcadia Bay and utter the name, people were more than likely to know her.

She was a very active girl after all; she flitted along through the bay with charisma and charm, laughing with the rich and lending a friendly hand to the poor.

A smile could wipe anyone of any age, gender, or sexuality off their feet, and a laugh had practically all of the surrounding citizens swooning and begging for affection. They were almost like dogs trying to catch the attention of their owner, though that was an analogy better saved for someone else- someone more rough, with a bark worse than his bite.

Rachel Amber was Arcadia Bay's lighthouse; a beacon. A signal to all other that the way was clear and steady, filled with hope and light.

But Rachel Amber was not the disguise she wore.

Rachel was a wolf beneath all those wool ridden rags, all gleaming yellow fangs and narrowed amber eyes. If you got on her bad side she'd reveal it, with a few barked phrases and a snarl.

Then she'd turn around and smile at her "friends" once again, the gleam of her white teeth blinding her audience from the truth.

Anyone who knew who Rachel really was and proclaimed it was considered mad; she had the wool over everyone's eyes and only a select few could remove it.

Of course, it always made things a little interesting. Nothing like a lunatic yelling at a party about how horrible the town angel was. It really turned into a shit show is Chloe was around too.

Chloe was like a knight, but beneath her armor she was nothing more than a bleeding heart and scar ridden memories. To Rachel, at the very least.

Rachel still pretended though; that she could do. She had Chloe head over heels in love with her, and that was of great satisfaction considering the last little girl to curl those heart strings had been quite the charmer.

(Or so said Che, eyes hidden beneath freshly dyed hair and a sad smile on her lips. Pathetic, in Rachel's words, and heart breaking in the words of her disguise.)

But Chloe wasn't the only one she had wrapped around her finger in ribbons; there were others. Many, many others.

Nathan Prescott, for example.

A little broken boy, all bite and bark. He could throw punches but he couldn't take them; not without shattering even further.

But every other word out of his mouth was a bomb waiting to go off, and it was almost as if he wanted them to go off- to blow him to bits and erase him from the bay. It made him an interesting little puppet.

Rachel found that he was harder to tame than she thought though. It got to the point where she had to reveal her true nature to get close to him, the broken boy reaching with shaking hands to pet the big bad wolf.

(And just this once, the big bad wolf didn't bite; instead, they protected the broken child, deeming them a friend to all the citizens of the bay.)

After that the two would scream and sob and burn it all away to nothing with a bit of fire and a roll of weed, ashes tumbling down around them like the burned bridges scattered all across Arcadia Bay- metaphorically speaking, of course.

And just like that she had the broken boy knotted around her ring finger, frayed but still clinging.

If she had to pick one person to be wrapped around her middle finger, it'd definitely be Victoria Chase.

An unlikely choice, true, but beneath all that expensive attire and hateful slurs Victoria was nothing more than geeky girl.

Just a few words and Victoria would be bending over backwards for her, though it was always in the comforting confines of privacy and not in the eyes of the audience.

If Victoria had known about the wolf she'd surely had run, but Rachel liked to amuse the thought of revealing it one day- just to chase the queen bee down and watch her tremble. It'd be one hell of a sight- definitely a picture worth a thousand words, if not a thousand bucks.

And so Victoria was wrapped up in a delicate bow, revealed like a secret weapon whenever she had plans to ruin the lives of the few enemies she had.

(And a proper player of any game is nothing without a trump card, though that would have to wait til later. There's still one more leash to tug on.)

Frank was another one of her pet projects, though he ended up more personal then she should've allowed. He only caught glimpses of the beast every now and then, it's teeth and it's glare on rare enraged occasions. But otherwise Rachel made sure to keep him in the dark, because knowing too much would end up hurting them both.

Frank was a better drug than anything he sold, and he had the cash to take her out of the hell of the bay if he put his heart to it.

(And even if he didn't have the cash for it, his bark would send people scrambling for the money they owed him. He'd never lash out and bite, but still.)

The pet project became a personal one with every whispered word between the pair, and soon enough Rachel had plans for him and her that involved leaving that endless chunk of nowhere.

But then again, sometimes things don't go as planned- even for Rachel. She knew it worst of all now, of course.

Her trump card was a man named Mark Jefferson- a teacher for photography at her school.

He had seemed decent enough, charismatic like her mask and as charming as a prince when he wanted to be.

A little cheesy? Yes. A little odd? Definitely. A killer? Not something she'd prepared herself for, but proved true by his vile acts.

After all, nothing quite screams "murderer" like the barrel of a gun pressed to her chest.

He'd shot her because she'd made the mistake of waking from her drug induced haze a little too early, and before her eyes glazed over and faded she saw that he too was a wolf, but he was wise and old- a master of his craft. In comparison, she'd just been a pup.

And also with her faded eyes she watched as all the little ribbons came undone. Slowly but surely...

The frayed strings Nathan used to cling on with were ripped apart and fluttered to the floor with the single ring of a bullet, and come to think of it she's sure she heard his voice scream "no" when Mark's finger twitched against the trigger just before pulling it.

Mark's took a little longer to come undone, not because he was shocked but because he was trying to work it out. How would he handle this situation now? He had a body in his little Dark Room and (somewhat) innocent blood on his hands. She was stained in his skin like tree rings.

But then the string fluttered away with a small tug from it's owner, a smug smirk on his face as he turned and left the broken boy to handle the bloody scene.

Frank's came apart next, the hope flickering from his eyes like dying flames. It hurt her to watch, but she was grounded by those strings and one little girl, so there wasn't much else to do anyhow.

When his string came apart she left him, and for a moment she wondered why the dead still had feelings- watching these people move on was too horrible for her to bare.

She died glued to her costume, and now they'd never know which was the wolf and which was the sheep's wool.

Victoria's took a lot of hacking from many people, but eventually that string was lost as well. The queen bee was busy after all, always buzzing around the hive of Blackwell for distractions in all shapes, forms, and prescriptions.

But Chloe's held on the longest. Rachel was almost sure that bleeding heart would never let her go.

But sweet release came to her faux knight in the form of an old friend, and that was when the first little thread popped and let go.

Max swung in on feathery wings, a real angel in the dimly lit bay. With a dagger in hand she slowly cut her way through that final string, freeing Chloe from the bond that weakened her. The dog was off their leash, and now Max had the pleasure of being her heart's owner.

Not that she knew it yet.

And now there's only one thing keeping Rachel on Earth and way from Hell's fire, though the flames seemed to be growing ever hotter.

Max Caulfield is definitely a fine piece of work.

An angel that came down to save a friend and lighten the bay as much as she could- but Arcadia Bay was dark now. After Rachel everyone grew to fear that light; it brought temporary happiness, and greater sadness and anger from all. Not a very fair trade.

But Rachel didn't think she'd have long to wait now.

Be it shoes, a halo, or a grave; Max could fill all three in her place.

It all just depended on two thing.

Would Max be able to save herself, or would Mark need help burying another body?


	5. Chapter 5

Kate didn't consider her life perfect, but it had been filled with happiness and contentment.

Her father loved her dearly, and she and her sisters we close to an extent.

Her mother and her aunt were another story.

She always felt like she was under a microscope when they were around, her mother the every watchful mad scientist and her aunt their higher up.

But Blackwell had been freedom and bliss; it brought her new horizons and a chance to escape her cage. She could stretch her wings and soar if she wanted to, but she made sure to stay out of the darker places in Arcadia Bay.

She was an angel, nestled like a dove in her tidy little dorm room. Her and Alice, her adorable little pet rabbit, spent a lot of time together, naturally.

Kate would draw the furry fiend and feed her, making sure to give the little bunny as much love and affection as she could give. In turn the rabbit gave her companionship, tiny paws on her face and little contented naps in her arms.

The two were happy.

But nothing stayed pure in the bay, as two others learned along with her.

She left the dorm with anxiety rising up her throat like a snake, and her hands were shaking like leaves on trees in winter storms.

She swallowed down the venomous creature in her throat and covered up her shaking with crossed arms and a small smile, though her eyes were windows to a terrified soul.

And she had every right to be terrified, as she soon learned.

No one was safe in the bay, not even the angel with once newly freed wings.

Now her wings were clipped once more, and with a single drug and a camera her face was etched into the bay and the rest of the internet using world as well.

Little whispered words between people in the halls, anonymous messages scrawled with venom on her board, and the booming laugh of Arcadia Bay's biggest... jerk.. became her personalized hell, and evidently all that hadn't been enough.

Soon her mother and her aunt were sending her messages and letters, their disapproval clear and her hell growing hotter with every spitefully written word.

Everything grew dim, and the once broad horizons of Blackwell disappeared one by one til the academy was a void. A dark space that she wandered blindly in.

There was no light for an angel, and certainly not one cast down from heaven's pearly gates.

She begged for forgiveness, but her hell only grew worse.

She was losing her faith.

She was losing her sleep.

She was losing her _life_.

A single video sent everything spiraling down, and everything was grim.

But there was one good thing left in the bay; something she prayed would stay that way.

Max Caulfield- if Kate had been an angel than Max was a god. The brunette had been there for her at her worst moments, or at least tried to. She even managed to talk her out of the most idiotic decision of her life, and that meant everything to her.

Maybe things were finally looking up.

When Kate was put into the hospital she'd been left to wallow in her thoughts with well wishes from her tormentors.

Maybe they regretted all the horrible things they'd said and done.

Hell, she could practically feel their regret seeping through the cards with every hastily written statement. Even the queen bee had written to her.

It was horrible to think, but she hoped they were truly torn up about what they'd done to her. She hoped that their regret ate them alive like her sorrow had done to her.

And she hoped that the bay had learned a valuable lesson that day- not to fucking around with people's lives.

(Of course, it hasn't, but she had no way of knowing that.)

Kate wasn't sure when she'd be allowed to leave the hospital room but Max came to visit her and that meant the world to her.

She wasn't sure what she was feeling, exactly, but she was more than pleased that her guardian angel had come to check in on her.

But Max had places to go and people to save, as Kate knew very well. So with a smile and a few brief parting words the brunette was off, ready to get justice for the blonde and all the other girls that things like this had been done to.

Kate was slowly getting better, and she was glad to be alive.

Hopefully, soon, she'd even return to Blackwell.

Sure, it was a horrible place when she'd been there last, but it was still better than home. Anything that offered a chance of freedom was better than a cage.

However, all she could do for now was wait. Wait and hope Arcadia Bay wouldn't snuff out Max's light, and her one last hope.

(And she'd be devastated if she ever learned what happened in the Junkyard that fateful day, and exactly what demons had stolen her light away.)


	6. Chapter 6

She hasn't been able to sleep lately.

Well, actually, she hasn't been able to sleep for ages now it seems.

The only solace she finds from her own head is when she's knocked out cold, exhaustion coming in the form of a fading reality and the steady grip of unconsciousness gripping firmly at the grey matter in her thick skull.

She does have moments where she can sleep though; rare little moments when she's truly at peace. She doesn't require toxic fluids or narcotics to put her under when Max is around, for a example.

Max is like a nightlight; a comforting glow in the overwhelming dark.

She silences the little whispers in her head with a single movement, brown hair falling all around her in her slumber.

Sometimes, Chloe even counts the freckles on Max's peaceful face instead of counting sheep. She finds it much more effective.

But, of course, there are those nights where Max isn't around. She's all grown up now; people seem to think she doesn't need her nightlight.

And so, on nights like that, Chloe finds herself in a bit of a slump.

She wonders idly about whether or not Max is asleep by now, all concept of time lost by staring at her ceiling and counting the little notches and bumps like she'd do to Max.

(She finds, rather furiously, that the ceiling is no substitute for having her smaller friend curled up beside her.)

Chloe moves about with hollow limbs and bags under her eyes, lurching from her bed with a groan of disapproval when she nearly falls flat on her face. She's been sitting around so long she kind of forgot gravity was a thing.

A yawn snakes out of her lips and Chloe moves over to her phone, placed by her laptop just but a few hours ago.

She checks the object, finds that there's nothing new going on, and then promptly stumbles back to her bed, this time with her phone in hand.

The insomniac gives another yawn, watery eyes threatening to overflow, as she reaches the bed, her fingers twitching a bit tighter around the item.

She quickly spins on her heels with a tired, deathly stare at the ceiling above.

Chloe leans back in an instant, falling calmly before thumping down on the comfy blankets.

She heaves a sign, pulls some earbuds out of her pocket, and proceeds to blow her mind away with music. Maybe then she'll get some sleep.

There's one last tugging thought that clings on though, and when she realizes what it is fury boils in her heart.

"Whatever." She hissed out through her teeth, her voice but a whisper and her eyes narrowed shut.

With that she tries to let the beats blasting into her head drive her far, far away, eyes slowly drooping shut as the world fades to black.


	7. Chapter 7

Time is subjective; or rather, relative. Time is anything you want it to be, really.

Especially if your basic concepts of time have been swiped under the table with a single swoop of some unseen forces far more powerful than herself.

Honestly, she's not sure where she got these powers from. She's not even sure if she's happy about having them.

(Not to say saving her dear friends Kate and Chloe weren't major pros of the situation- she was VERY happy about that. Outside that, however? She felt unease. Over powered. It was like she was a god walking among mortals, and everything she altered chipped and faltered like broken glass.)

Sometimes, when she's alone in her room, she'll stare at her hands and just examine them. See if there are any differences, and if so where? Her hands were always the same though; regular, human hands, for a regular, human being.

It was unsettling.

Though there were no physical altercations to her in any form, things felt... different.

She could feel the gentle tug and pull of time's fabric between her fingertips. She could brush her palm along the many alternating paths she could've taken to reach the exact same place.

It was unnerving and completely bizarre, and rewinding served as a reminder that she was _wrong_.

No mere human should be able to change the path of the world around them. You got one shot and one shot alone! What was life if you could take ALL the chances? What was living like if you didn't have to face permanent consequences?

All these questions swelling up in her head rattled her to the very bone.

The seas of time tried to drag her in but instead moved around her, as though she was a rock in their steady waters.

And rewinding upset that calm. Rewinding sent the waves cascading through her, pain erupting if she dared to go too far.

Sometimes she tested herself.

She'd lift her hand up and rewind as much as she possibly could. Only when fire erupted behind her eyes and smoke filled her skull would she stop. Only when black smog covered her vision and blood ran like streams from her nose would she let her arm fall back down to her body.

She wanted to be ready. She wanted to be ready in case anything were to ever happen to her or her friends again.

She'd almost lost poor, sweet Kate. She'd lost Chloe plenty of times and ripped her from death's icy fingertips.

She refused to submit to fate; Max Caulfield was willing to die for her friends.

(And as one mused already, though Max herself was unaware, she just might end up doing that before the week was through.)

And as willing as she was to die for them, sometimes she just couldn't do it. All it took was for the pressure to become too much; for her paranoia and anxiety to reach a critical peak.

For a single moment to repeat over and over with nothing able to stop it.

Panic and anxiety would wring her by her neck and tug her down with them, the world fractured and hypersensitive as she tried to shut her eyes and calm herself. Her heart would beat rapidly in her chest and her lungs would refuse to _work_ , the frantic beating and pulsating organ buried deep within her thumping loudly in her ears as she shook and bit down hard on her own arms to choke back screams and sobs.

In the end she was only one girl.

One shy, cliche geek.

She was no hero; only a supersized, unwilling volunteer for all of life's horrors.

In the end, she was only too late.

One needle against her neck, cold and unforgiving.

She was no hero; only a victim in one twisted game of life.

She crumples and falls, time fading from beneath her palms, and watches pitifully as the killer comes into focus and the body of her best friend lands in the dirt with a thud.

In the end, she will be forgotten.

One of many missing girls, with a power only a dead punk knew about.

She will never be a hero; only a corpse buried in a shallow grave, just like Rachel Amber and possibly even Chloe Price.

The thought makes her stomach churn, but there is nothing else to do.

The storm is coming, and from the looks of it, Mark has won.

At least when it all came down to it, she could say she tried her best.

Kate Marsh was alive, and if they were lucky David would catch their paper trail just in time for the shit show.

Mark Jefferson would pay, rather she lived to see it or watched from whatever afterlife there surely must be.

She starts to count down.

Her very MINUTES were numbered. She could tell.

She had a feeling in her very SOUL about this little scenario.

The window of opportunity was only opened for a limited time, after all.

A very precise sliver of time.

If the cards played to her favor, she would be the last victim of this monster.

(As she calculates this, she watches him grin and move towards the syringes.)

If the cards played to HIS favor...

(He draws the drug from the bottle into the needle with practiced precision, a sickening tune escaping his throat in a hum.)

There would be many more.

(He slides forward and she prepares herself with a grimace, fists clenched as she tenses and waits for him to move a bit closer.)

(He fails to notice the subtle change in position.)

But she has a feeling that she'll get away from this hellish place.

(He moves to inject the toxins, a smile on his disgusting facade.)

(She twists away from the action and goes to bite down on his wrist instead.)

After all, she still had a town to save.

(Her teeth connect with flesh and she digs down on the thick vein pulsing beneath her tongue, ready to lock her jaw and rip away violently- hopefully with a chunk of his arm.)

And one more rewind to plan for if this plan goes well.

What's the point of saving a town if the person you loved couldn't join you for it?

(Copper floods her mouth and her pupils shrink with feral rage. She'd get free. She had to.)

(After all, she still had to save Chloe.)


	8. Chapter 8

She feels like she's drowning, but there's no way in hell she's rewinding all this.

Her head is tucked into Chloe's shoulder and she doesn't dare to look up, but she can tell by how tense the blue haired girl is that the storm has already dug its teeth into the bay.

Max's head is swimming with everything she'd been through. Not this week in general, but just the past 24 hours.

It's almost funny how naive they had been, thinking it was Nathan all this time.

On the bright side of things though, at least Max had called out Fuckerson's smug ass in the principle's office that day.

Maybe if she hadn't, things would've turned out a lot differently.

It's sad though.

In other timelines she managed to save so many people, but now Arcadia is going to fall and she won't be able to save anyone this time.

(Or at least, that's what she thinks.)

(She doesn't remember that just a few moments ago in her time, she'd made a few minor alterations to the plan. She'd be damned if she didn't save a handful of people from the manifestation of her fuckery. One more kink in the chains of time wouldn't make the situation that much worse anyhow.)

They stay there for a while, waiting (and in Chloe's case, watching) as the storm abruptly comes to an end.

Max keeps her head down for a while, then decides to look. It's with some relief that she notices a few buildings are still standing in the rubble.

(And, she notes with some surprise, Blackwell is still standing. A little rough around the edges, but standing tall among the chaos just outside its walls.)

Not long after the duo heads down from the cliff, quiet and afraid but hopefully nonetheless.

After all, maybe some people survived the hellish winds and rain.

If so, they'd be there to help them. It was the least Max could do.

They take off down the streets in Chloe's truck, eyes watchful as they navigate the cluttered roads.

There are bodies. Many, imany/i bodies.

But it doesn't matter. It stings, yes, but Max wouldn't let the guilt settle. Not now, not when they still had pieces to pick up.

It's with some surprise that Max finds the Two Whales still standing.

Hadn't it blown up? Yes, it had. Not once but twice, since Max had take a bit too long to reach the sand.

Max looks to Chloe for a moment, and seconds later Chloe's jumping out of the car with Max hot on her heels.

Maybe they were alright.

(And Max wouldn't be able to keep the flood gates up if Joyce was dead now too. Chloe had already lost one parent because of her, there was no way in hell Max would let herself be responsible for the death of Joyce as well.)

Chloe glances at the front door for a moment before immediately sprinting to the back entrance, only giving Max a few seconds to catch up before they both burst inside.

They slip in through the halls and open one last door, and-

They're greeted with sobs of joy and tight hugs.

(And a few licks from Pompidou, who had warmed up to the punk and the time traveler rather quickly after their last encounter.)

Joyce and Chloe immediately latch onto each other, and Max beams brightly at the two before slipping past. Pompidou follows her before moving off towards Frank, who Max greets before giving him the bad news.

He takes it hard, but he is strong. He'll work past it and be the kind of person Rachel would've been proud of, or at least that's what Max thinks.

She leaves the man with his dog before sucking in a deep breath.

If she's honest, she's not ready to talk to ihim/i.

Yes, they're friends. She iknows/i that.

But she is utterly terrified of him now.

That nightmare is still fresh in her head and freaking her out, but she knows if she doesn't talk to him he'll be hurt. She doesn't want that.

Besides, he was hurt enough as it was when she left through the photo without even a hug.

She breathes out.

She's fine.

(iNo she isn't./i)

She's going to be okay talking to him.

(iShe feels like she's suffocating./i)

He's the same old Warren.

(iIt's not the same now./i)

She slowly walks towards him.

She is tense and rigid, but somehow her mechanical movements go unnoticed.

The smile that blooms on his face when he finally looks up and sees her is almost enough for her to loosen up.

(iBut then she remembers the icy fear that clawed at her chest when his nightmare version caught sight of her. The shout, the psychotic glee in his voice. To say it gave her chills is an understatement./i)

She smiles forcefully and she thinks he can tell it isn't real, as his own smile falters for a moment.

He looks like he wants to get up and hug her, or thank whatever god there is that she's alive.

But, he remains a good distance from her. Perhaps her fear is too obvious.

They start up a conversation (a rather awkward one, at first), and it take's all of Max's willpower not to freak out on him.

It's not his fault her nightmare was so convincing.

Eventually, however, Chloe notices the tension.

Like a white knight she swoops in, stealing Warren's self proclaimed title by wrapping an arm around Max's waist and grinning.

The conversation moves on, but now that Chloe's beside her Max is a little more comfortable.

The awkward air leaves the trio as they talk.

Eventually they all leave the diner and clamor into Chloe's truck.

They even see a few familiar faces as they drive along and stop so they can hop into the bed of the vehicle, and it's with a grin that Max realizes things might be turning out pretty damn well for an "unexpected" storm.

They drive past the hospital Kate had been in and pause for a moment, Chloe and Max staring in awe at the ruins. Max reaching out with her left hand slowly, and Chloe takes it rather quickly. She gives Max's a reassuring squeeze before looking over, blue tufts of hair going on all directions as she takes off her beanie and places it on Max's head.

"Don't worry, Maxaroni. Kate's fine- she's gotta be. The hospital probably evacuated before the storm got too bad."

This calms the brunette significantly, giving a nod as Warren backs up that possibility. Kate Marsh was probably up on higher ground, further from the bay now than she had been the previous day.

The drive continues, and Max suggests they had up to Blackwell.

Warren looks confused for a moment, but Chloe saves Max some time and explains that they'd seen the school from the cliff. Blackwell was practically spotless from what they could tell.

So, with many agreements from the other passengers, they set off towards the school.

When they arrive at Blackwell, Max is swept off her feet.

The place is not only practically spotless, but swamped with familiar faces.

Max grins wildly before she's being swept along in a sea of friends.

(Alyssa, Warren, and Evan join the fray readily. Chloe hesitated before hoping in, and the rest of their crew waits around the truck.)

Max starts a silent headcount as she's practically tossed around from person to person in overjoyed hugs and greetings.

Taylor, Courtney, Dana, Juliet, Stella, Hayden, Trevor, Daniel, Luke, Logan, Justin- hell, she was running out of names for all these people that she was stumbling around greeting.

Brooke ran up to her after a few moments, grabbing Max's hand excitedly before pulling her out of the crowd.

"Max!" Brooke practically shouted, dragging the brunette towards the dorms. "Max you're a hero! God, if you hadn't warned Kate about all these we could've DIED!"

That's where Brooke lost her. Warned? Warned iKate/i? When did she do that?

But apparently her confusion went unnoticed, as the very excited teen pushed her into the dorm.

"Come on Caulfield! Kate's going to be SO happy to see you! She wouldn't shut up about you."

Max is practically running after the words sink in, and she has to resist the urge to drag Brooke along behind her instead.

Kate made it! And if Kate made it, that means a lot of other people did too.

(And, maybe while she was hugging the hell out of the Christian girl, she could squeeze out how exactly she'd warned her about the storm.)

Max makes her way to Kate's dorm room and eagerly notes the torn down police tape, a grin stretching across her face before she throws open the door to the room.

Brooke makes her escape as Max does so, shouting about how she was going to find Warren. That was fine by her.

Kate looks up, slightly startled by the sudden entrance, but immediately leaps up when she realizes who her unexpected guest is.

"Max! I was so worried, Max. I thought you might not have made it through the storm!" She launches herself at the brunette and gives her a rib-crushing hug, happiness radiating from her.

"Well, you know me. No storm is gonna stop the likes of Mad Max!" And though it's hard to breathe she quickly returns the hug, happiness radiating through every inch of her body.

The two pull back from the hug, ready to dive into a conversation, but are stopped short by a big bear hug from the side, the startled pair giving sharp yelps and squeaks respectively before their third party member tumbles back onto Kate's bed.

Max looks up quickly and realizes it's just Chloe, grinning before cuffing the bluenette lightly on the shoulder.

"You ass, I thought we were about to get kidnapped or something," Max huffs, crossing her arms while Kate giggles in response.

Chloe releases them from the bear hug, but not before ruffling Kate's hair affectionately and taking her beanie back from Max.

"Well, sorry then. But you two looked like you were having fun and I wanted in."

Kate grins before hugging the leather clad girl in response, lifting an arm to drag Max back into the group hug. "That's fine by me. I think we could iall/i use some hugging right now."

"No objections here!" Chloe swiftly replied, a smile stretching across her face.

Max just kept grinning, enjoying the embrace for a moment before they all detached themselves.

"So, Kate, I saw a lot of people up front- any idea who all made it?"

The question is out of her lips before she can stop herself, but Kate doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she seems more than happy to answer her.

"Well, it's a pretty long list Max, thanks to you. Victoria and her little gang made it through, along with our resident reporter Juliet and Dana. I know Justin and his friends are around as well... Obviously Brooke's okay, and everyone else in our Photography class is alive and well too. A lot of other people as well, in fact. I think Nathan's around too, actually."

That makes Max freeze for a moment. Nathan? Nathan iPrescott/i?

Chloe freezes up as well, confusion in her gaze as she looks over at Kate.

"Wait, hold up- Nathan Prescott? He's ihere/i?"

"Yeah. In fact, I think he was about to go out and look for you too. He looked worried."

Max and Chloe share a nervous glance before nodding, reluctantly getting up with Kate on their heels.

"Kate, do you have any idea where he might be?" Max asks, urgency bleeding through her words as she crosses her arms and hunches inward slightly.

"Yeah, actually. I'll show you the way."

The trio take off out of the dorms, heading towards the main building. For Kate, it's an easy trip to make. For Chloe and Max, it's riddled with anxiety and a sense of dread.

Kate opens the door to Jefferson's old classroom, stepping inside and gesturing for Chloe and Max to follow. In the back of the room, perched up on Max's desk with his back to them, is none other than Nathan.

He seemed to be muttering to himself, words creating a smoky haze around him as they approached.

Nathan didn't show any signs of acknowledgement as they drew near, and eventually they all came to a stop a good few steps away from the troubled boy.

They all shared a glance but seemed too nervous to move, unsure how he would react.

Surprising, Max was the one to take the initiative and make their presence known.

She slowly took a few steps forward, one hand outstretched before she slowly put it down on Nathan's shoulder.

He flinched but didn't pull away, noting that the touch was lighter than that of which he was normally greeted with.

"Nathan? You okay?" Max uttered uncertainly, her voice wavering as she waited for his reply.

Slowly the scrawny boy turned, bare scar covered arms uncrossing as his eyes fixated on the freckle covered photographer. "Hey, Max," he mutters quietly, his eyes flicking up to the other two. "Chloe, Kate."

He nods a greeting to them with their names, and Kate waves back nervously while Chloe takes a hesitant step forward.

"You wanted to see us?" The punk finally murmured, her own tone filled with worry as she eyed the scraggly youth.

"Yeah. I wanted to..." Nathan appeared to struggle for a moment, then found his bravery with the bitter bite of his own nails against his palms. "I wanted to apologize. For everything. I- I never wanted to-"

Max stopped him before he could continue, smiling up at him. "Never wanted to hurt anyone, right?"

Nathan nodded quietly, her face pale as he slowly lowered himself from the desk and stood in front of the trio.

"I- Jefferson he-... I was- AM- really fucked up. I'm sure a lot of people have.. Have noticed that by now," he starts slowly, his form shaking for a moment before he steadies himself. "Jefferson took advantage of that. He- he used me. He imanipulated/i me, that sick fucker," Nathan struggled once again before taking a deep breath, his hands curling into tight fists before continuing. "But thanks to you, Max- thanks to you I managed to see through it all. I'm so sorry for everything I've done, I- If I could just go back and change it..."

Max smiles sadly, and Chloe's tension visibly leaves her body. Kate inches forward and grabs onto Chloe's arm, then grabs Max's hand before releasing the pair again.

"Glad I could help, Nathan. Really. And I'm not sure about Chloe and Kate here but," the photographer took a step forward, then gently patted the Prescott on the shoulder. "I forgive you. And, if you'd let me, I'd like to try and be friends with you from here on out."

Kate and Chloe mutter their forgiveness as well, and soon the trio as smiling to themselves before Nathan's silent, happy crying fills the air, a grin crossing his face before he looks up at each of them in turn and then fixates his hazy gaze on Max. "You know what, Max? I think I'd like that."

The three girls grin to themselves before they drag Nathan into a rather awkward group hug, pulling back to laugh about it among themselves.

Max and Chloe share another glance as the group leaves the photography room behind, each with the same thought in mind.

Maybe things can be alright this way.


	9. Chapter 9

The world is void.

No, correction. The world IS a void.

Dark, vast nothingness that surrounds her oh so completely and painfully.

That isn't to be taken literally, of course. The world couldn't literally be a void, but rather, the world is nothing to her any more.

She moves but without thought or feeling. She breathes but there is no purpose to it.

Her broken heart beats slowly in her chest, but without iher/i it's just the effects of rigor mortis.

(iShe already regrets her choices so, so much./i)

She keeps thinking- back to when her world had meaning.

When the dark was warm and inviting, and photographs were frozen memories- HER frozen memories.

But now...

Now the dark is ihis/i hiding place, and photographs are reminders that ishe's/i just a time jump away.

(She keeps thinking- is there a way she can have both?)

And now the thought is imprinted in her head- imprinted like Chloe's stain on everything she's ever touched in not this timeline but the next.

This Chloe died angry and alone. Terrified and angry and ialone/i. Hoping, praying, idreaming/i a better life for herself and a dead girl.

This Chloe died left in the dark- uninformed and dissatisfied with everything.

This Chloe was not the welcoming fire she knew- this Chloe was a raging inferno, with nothing to lose.

(And she couldn't- ican't/i live with that.)

Having a week of your life taken from you is not a very healthy experience, as Max finds out.

Having a week gone and null creates a dull throb in her heart.

All those experiences with Chloe- saving her time and time again, breaking into Blackwell, kissing her on a dare- all of them made her life have imeaning/i.

And now?

They were gone.

Her choices and her struggles were null- void- nothing.

She can't take it.

And now? Now she's found her third option.

She clutched the photograph in her hand, fingers trembling and eyes dark.

"I'm sorry, Chloe." She whispers to the air, vaguely aware that even if a ghost of her friend had hear such words they would soon be gone.

The world comes into focus- red, white, and black around the room.

She knows. She iknows/i what she must do.

And she is finally ready.

She hears Nathan enter the room and drowns him out with the symphony of thoughts running through her head.

iSave her, Max. Don't fuck it up, Max. Focus, Max! You can do it. Don't let her die again./i

She hears Chloe enter and takes in a silent, shaky breath.

She can do this. She has to.

She can hear it now, ringing in her ears with the siren songs of the damned. Nathan pulls out his gun, Chloe utters her closing lines, and-

Max leaps out from her hiding spot, shouting to get Nathan's attention.

She watches as he turns, eyes wide in fear, and fires.

(Thinking on it now, it's kind of funny. "Always take the shot" never had such a physically painful meaning for her til now.)

The world is still for a few moments, and Max is vaguely aware of the pain blooming around the wound- like roses, with thorn covered stems stretching up through her flesh and in her veins.

Chloe shouts out in surprise, Nathan drops his gun in shock, and Max- the ever important, time bending paradox on legs- smiles softly as her legs cave in, watching the ground approach her as she falls.

Chloe's shaking her now, crying out for her- Max only laughs in response, her eyes watery before she coughs out an apology.

And a reminder to check her phone.

(Chloe looks confused at the later, but Max promises it'll explain itself. All the blue haired punk has to do is believe in her.)

Max watches out of the corner of her eye as David bursts in, and as Chloe feebly tries to keep Max awake and alive all the smaller girl can do is grin as time begins to fade.

Max slowly turns her gaze back to Chloe, and utters a single statement- a statement mentioned by the other what feels like eons ago. Chloe is crying now, she can tell. A pity, but crying is a far better outcome than dead.

And now the world is fading into black.

Darkness etches at her eyes, claiming her vision bit by bit.

Now the ambiance is dying down.

Sound leaves her mind until all she can feel is the gentle tug of death's hand on her shoulder.

But just before she fades, she hears Chloe's response echo in her head.

i"I'll never forget you, Max. I love you."/i

And then?

Then everything went dark.

Max opens her eyes and is met with pure white in all directions.

She looks down at her hands in confusion and is met with outlines of grey.

She looks up again and then- her eyes meet that of another.

A familiar face, none the less.

She may be dead, and she's positive this is neither heaven nor hell, but at least now?

Now she has the pleasure of meeting Rachel- and thank her for all that she's done.

She's not sure what she'll do after that, but Rachel seems to have picked up a hobby in the afterlife.

Maybe being a guardian angel will do her some good.

After all, Chloe could certainly use one.


	10. Chapter 10

It's kind of funny, actually.

I get my best friend back- fall in love with her even. I get the scholarship of my dreams.

On top of all that, I save a wonderful girl's life and find myself saddled with a power of godly power.

God, why couldn't it be that easy?

Why could I just live a normal, happy life?

Fall in love with my blue haired punk and sweep her off her feet somehow, enjoy a nice cup of tea with Kate.

Graduate and make my way into the world of photography- I don't need to be famous and have that particular dream come true, honest! At this point I'd be fine working as a cheap photographer who everyone keeps forgetting the name of.

I just want Chloe Price at my side when I do it.

But life isn't that *fucking* simple, is it?

Dreams don't come true! Not even realistic ones.

Not here, not in Arcadia Bay.

Not when it's the week of the End of the World party.

God, could they have picked out a more coincidental name? It's nerve-wracking how accurate that damn party's *name* was alone.

End of the *fucking* world! Party like animals, high school assholes. If I second guess myself it'll be the last party of your lives.

Let's get off topic now.

I never believed in a god.

Never had reason to.

If god exists, why do horrible things happen? It doesn't make sense.

But I respect the beliefs of others. Always have and always will.

Kate told me something once- something that made me want to believe.

I wanted to believe a god existed so fucking badly.

But I couldn't.

I can't.

What kind of a god would do this?

What kind of a god would force this decision upon me?

I can have the girl I love or I can have the world that I live in.

I can have my life support or I can pull the plug myself, knowing I've saved many against the one.

But...

If I save them, I leave her.

If I save them, I erase a week of my life from existence.

I would never have befriended all these people, I would never have helped Chloe find Rachel.

I would never have helped Chloe see the light of the world...

If I save them...

I'll go insane.

I'll hate myself and I'll hate the world.

Chloe would die bitter and alone in that bathroom, never knowing how much I DID for her.

But if I save HER...

If I save her, I leave my world behind.

I leave behind my dreams, my friends, my hope...

I leave behind the things I worked so FUCKING hard to get.

I leave this town with a trail of sorrow and death following behind me...

Blood on my hands and a stain in my heart and in my head.

I leave her...

I have a world of misery on my shoulders.

A cloud of darkness pounding in my head- all things I've never said.

I leave them...

I lose the world beneath my feet.

The void will devour my heart- there will be no restart.

How do I make this choice?

I can't do it.

I can't.

Chloe is standing in front of me, waiting, HOPING that I make the right decision.

I love her.

I love her so much it hurts.

Fuck, I'm even crying now, I think.

Hard to tell with all the rain.

And I've got the ticket to the world in my palms.

It's so fragile- so easy to destroy.

God, who ever would've thought one could save the world with just a single measly photograph?

So thin and flimsy.. It could slip right through my fingers and that would be it- the world, gone.

I don't know what's right.

Chloe needs me to make the right choice but I just.. I can't... I WON'T...

But I have to.

I take a deep breath and hold the polaroid with shaky hands.

It's Chloe Price or the world.

All she can do is hope she doesn't regret this...


End file.
